


Poetry of War

by Cirilla9



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Hellenistic Religion & Lore, Troy (2004), Wrath of the Titans (2012)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angry Sex, Blood and Gore, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Rough Sex, Trojan War, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, what else have you expected with the God of War fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-30 04:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14489190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/Cirilla9
Summary: During Trojan War Ares comes to Apollo to calm down somewhat





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a clip from Wrath of the Titans and Ares was hot and so this story happened

The air condensed, particles drew together until the stormy cloud was formed, dark fume of smoke, crossed with flashes of lightning, wind raging around it like during hurricanes, whipping anyone and everything that got to close. The whiff distorted the peaceful gathering of poets and singers as the strength of the primitive force hit them, sending papers written with notes and carefully arranged hair flying.

From the gust a silhouette no less submissive than a cyclop has appeared, materializing right before Apollo and his muses.

Ares, the God of War, was like the force of nature himself. Unpredictable, unstoppable, destroying everything in its wake with brute violence.

He advanced on Apollo even before the smoke fully dissolved.

“Your Trojans can't fight!” he roared, “and instead of remeding that you sit here surrounded by your nine whores, doing nothing!”

Commotion run through the gathering of Apollo’s companions, angry glares and infuriated whispers stabbed the God of War, as each of the artist felt personally offended. Whole Greece was affronted by Ares’ manners to the point of not building him any temples.

“They’re not whores, they’re muses,” Apollo sighed but gestured for his friends to leave. There was no civilized discussion to be had when Ares was so agitated.

Group of intellectuals was only to pleased to extract themselves from Ares’ proximity and they were alone in no time, Ares already before his chair, hand reaching for Apollo’s throat. God of Poetry grabbed his wrist before the other one managed to squeeze at his neck.

When Apollo stood up he was almost higher from his half-brother but Ares made up for it with the intensity of outrage emanating from him. What ensued was something between a fight and a foreplay as both opponents touched each other’s skin more often than it was strictly necessary.

Apollo hit the other God in the jaw, Ares bit him in revenge. He wasn’t the well groomed delicate boy type Apollo preferred in his bed but there was some undeniable appeal of the God of Cruelty, sweated up by the struggle, dark hair spilled into his face, bright smile - that was there any time Ares fought - dripping with Apollo’s blood.

Apollo kissed that feral grin, only to be bit again. He didn’t mind, shoving clothes off the other man, peeling off his armor plates, desperate to touch his bare skin.

That happened every time Ares got too irked by the lack of progress in the War of Troy that went on for several years already, without any side any closer to the victory than they were at the beginning. Ares would come to him, fuming with rage, cursing Trojans’ cowardice and accusing Apollo, as the patron of their city, for this all; they would fight, they would fuck until some of the steam was let out and Ares was a bit calmer, as much composed and sane as the War God ever managed to be. He would come to Apollo to cool down any time he and Aphrodite were at no-fucking conditions in their rapidly changing romance. He was using Apollo as his second-best but the God of Music didn’t mind a time to time distraction and having a power of the storm beneath him. A challenge to tame that beast with his touch and voice alone was too tempting to give up upon.

So they grappled like that one time on the Olympics, and though they fought passionately, it was hard to tell which one was more skilled warrior, as they rarely carried out the battle to the end. More often than not it moved to slightly different activities.

When Apollo moved to spread Ares’ legs, the God of Anger grabbed his arm and snarled: “No. Today I want it different.” Fingers of his other hand touching Apollo’s backside made his meaning quite obvious. That also wasn’t an arrangement Apollo preferred, but Ares seemed to be an unending stream of exceptions for him.

“What did they do this time?” he asked yet, curious what infuriated Ares so much.

“It's what they didn't do!” Ares’ impatient hands were tearing at Apollo’s fine fabrics. “Another day without fighting, another pointless pact to postpone battles in order to bury one more insignificant mortal prince.” Ares lived for the chaos of the battle, the blood and violence of war was where he belonged and he starved without it, wearing his appetite off on the poet’s body. Fingers clenched now upon the flesh, too tight for comfort, digging in angry bruises.

Apollo, even though affected by his brother's passion, had enough presence of mind to shove a vial of oil at his partner. It didn't made for much as Ares barely slicked his fingers once before throwing the whole thing away carelessly. Apollo didn't waste breath to scold him as it would be pointless anyway.

“Paris isn't even worth it,” grumbled Ares, pushing Apollo at his own desk, throwing off more scripts and poetic conceptions that survived his arrival. “He can't fight, he can't win his woman in a duel, he can only steal her.”

Ares pushed his hard cock into Apollo’s barely prepared body, roaring like a lion, drowning even Apollo’s moan in his animalistic grunts.

“Whatever she even sees in him?” He growled during savage thrusts. “She's a daughter of Sparta, she should choose a warrior.”

“Perhaps,” gasped Apollo, “she likes to be the object of fight between men,” _as I know some of the Goddesses do_ , he didn't add aloud. Ares was bound to stray into that topic anyway.

“What they all see in him?”

“He's beautiful. They both are beautiful.”

“Helen, maybe. He's just a boy. Too delicate, too fragile. Weak as Adonis was. Sometimes,” his thrusts became more haste and harsh as anger seized him once more, “I suspect Aphrodite’s reasons to pull me to this war were not ones of the pure concept of love but rather the very carnal desires for that boy.”

His voice was mad with jealousy. His movements, the way his hands gripped Apollo's waist bordered on intentional hurting now. Apollo moved with him, trying to get more comfortable, digging his own fingers in Ares’ back in retaliation at the same time.

He was close, he could feel his brother was close as well by the familiar change in his breathing. Apollo leaned back to strengthen the sensations of a coming orgasm...

And that was when he saw the slander figure perched at the fence. Hermes sat still, his wings curled back, watching them wordless and wide eyed.

Before Apollo had a chance to say anything, Ares came in him with a growl, sending him over the edge of pleasure. Very un-poetically Apollo decided he didn't give a fuck about Gods’ messenger for a moment and submitted to the waves of satisfaction rolling through him.

When he came to himself, by the tension in Ares muscles he deduced that the other God noticed their little guest as well.

“You,” Ares’ voice was dangerous as he stepped toward the boy.

Before Apollo pulled himself together from his disheveled state, the messenger managed to make his situation worse.

“I'd never guess you two were a thing. I thought you prefer women after business with Aphrodite and, you know, the whole spectacle Hephaestus made of it- “ the boy shut up as he recognized the look in Ares’ eyes for the murder intent that it was.

Apollo placed a hand on the other God’s shoulder.

“Don't,” he spoke softly.

Ares whirled on him, his features furious once more, looking instant away from hitting something, then disappeared in a flash of smoke and thunder.

“You shouldn't have mentioned Hephaestus,” huffed Apollo at the boy. Hermes ruined him what might have been a nice aftersex cuddling with the God of War.

Ares always hated when people saw him naked. A shame really as his marvelous body would be a perfect model for a sculpture.

“Is there anything you've got to tell me?” Apollo addressed the godly messenger.

“Only that Priam’s priests call for your support again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be a one-shot but I did some research and I've got too many Ares' feelings right now and here is the effect

„I wanted to hate you,” said Ares. He laid beside Apollo in that rare for him moments of calmness just after coition; his skin glistened with sweat. “Yet another spawn of my infidel father, yet another reason for my mother's anguish.”

_Hera, Goddess of Marriage and Family, first among the ladies at Olympus, threw another ceramic vase against the wall of her chamber. The vessel broke, spilling into red and black pieces._

_“That bitch!” she yelled. “That cunt, that ugly wench! That double-faced slut pretending a decent woman!”_

_“Who?” asked Ares cautiously._

_“Leto! I suspected Zeus has another lover from some time but now I finally got her name. That pathetic fragile creature...”_

_Suddenly robbed of strength by her anger, Hera sat down heavily. She hid her face in her palms but did not cry. She never cried nor fainted at the news of betrayal; she was a strong woman and she had her own means to deal with such matters. And she had Ares._

_Hera raised her dry eyes to her son’s face._

_“I want you to find her and make sure she will not deliver her child to this world.”_

Apollo shifted uncomfortably. When Hera let Ares loose at Leto, it was before his birth. And Ares had his reasons, Hera had her reasons, just like everyone else in that story. Yet it was hard to not blame his half-brother for pursuing his mother when she was at the brink of childbirth, chasing her with an army of horse riders, from polis to polis, preventing her from finding a peaceful place to rest.

Apollo didn’t like to be reminded of these events, especially in the arms of his wayward lover.

“But you don’t hate me?”

“For a very long time I despised you. I detested you for being a poet and a musician. Your sister run the woods, hunted animals, made sacrifices from the wild game, while you just played and sang and composed rhymes.”

Apollo opened his mouth to reply but Ares stifled any sound with his palm clasped at his brother’s jaw. It was not the delicate finger of a lover suggesting to keep silent and listen to love confessions. It was a grip of a warrior, firm and bruising. Apollo hissed in a breath through his nose.

“Until one day,” continued Ares, “I saw your contest with Marsyas. The woods still echo with satyr’s cries, where you've made him sing a song of suffering. When you peeled off his skin, stripe after stripe, and he wailed still alive, I was there, in the thickets, listening, watching.”

Ares straddled him, his eyes shone.

“That day I saw a warrior in you.”

He slid his hand off Apollo’s jaw and replaced it with his lips. The kiss was infused with Ares’ passion and soon Apollo became affected by it.  Ares rutted against him, already aroused by the bloody tale and Apollo felt his own phallus raise again – as for the gods befit, sons of Zeus could go at it all day, refractory period was for mortals.

Apollo dug his nails in Ares’ back, which send his half-brother shivering in pleasure. Teeth sunk into Apollo’s lips, a stinging pain erupted there as the blood spilled, only to be licked off by Ares. The God of War had a thing about blood, he loved to draw it from enemies and allies alike. Maybe except for Aphrodite but with her he was an entirely different man and Apollo refused to think about that particular relationship at such moments. He refused to think about it the whole time, to be precise, and when Ares went to her, Apollo got his Muses, and a sweet boy at rarer occasions. But right now he got the embodiment of battle frenzy under his hands, which begged to be subdued.

He reached toward the desk for the letter knife that laid among the parchments. The thing was too far so he summoned it and soon the handle fitted into his hand. Apollo brought the blade to Ares throat, grazing the skin just beneath the stubble line, pressing so the skin dug under it but not so hard to break it.

Ares drew back minutely but in the gaze he sent Apollo from above the weapon was nothing fearful. If anything, he looked yet more excited. Apollo, not tearing his eyes off his half-brother’s marvelous form, slid the blade lower, through aorta to the clavicle.

“Shall I make you bleed, brother? Shall I make you scream, like I did Marsyas that day? Shall I peel off your skin?” Apollo pressed harder, drew the knife across his brother’s chest, cutting his sun-bronzed skin with a shallow line. Ares buckled against him and Apollo gasped at the rapid movement, the unexpected change of pace against his groin.

“It’s a poet’s toy,” panted Ares, “not a warrior’s weapon. Do not belittle the opinion I’ve got about you.”

“Not a battle sword,” agreed Apollo. “But it drew your blood all the same.”

The God of Poetry smeared the red droplets that started to gather in the cut across Ares’ torso. He raised his knife to slash again but the strong hand of his lover caught his wrist in a steely grip. The foreplay turned into a tussle again, they wrestled in the dirt, trying to overpower each other and battle excitement mingled with passion of love until one was inseparable from the other.

Apollo managed to grab Ares’ waist with both hands – the knife lost earlier in the chaos of the fight – and pull him down at his erection. Ares did cry out then but whether it was from pain or from pleasure or just plain surprise, Apollo did not know. What ensued later was short, violent and satisfying at a primary level.

Apollo usually liked to prolong these things but with Ares it wasn’t possible, his desire burning hot like a fire and consuming everyone around as quickly as flames embraced the dry grass.

Afterward they laid side to side, exhausted.

“No, I don’t hate you,” said Ares amidst catching his breath. “You’re making it hard to hate you, you bastard.”

Apollo swung at him with a fist but Ares was already disappearing in a cloud of stormy darkness, laughing openly.

 

                                    


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I did it again 😊  
> Enjoy (if someone's still keeping an eye on this story)

„You can do this,” Ares whispered the assurance to the mortal’s ear.

One of the many advantages of being a deity was that he could make himself invisible to a human eye. He could be at any place, listen to any war council, reach the most bloodiest areas of the battlefield afterward, knowing where the main strike would befall.

He could stir anger, too, and encourage destructive ideas. Earlier that day he overheard Achilles and Patroclus’ argument. He had been keeping an eye on the bold demigod, since the promising beginning when Peleus’ son had conquered the Trojan beach, only to be severely disappointed by his latter inaction. Until this evening.

This evening, listening to Greek lovers’ quarrel, Ares saw a chance to sped the proceedings of the war.

“You know what to do,” crooned the God of War to Patroclus, who stood before Achilles’ armor, staring at the shining plates. “No one will know, you’re similar enough. You know him well to pretend being him for a moment. Even when they find out, no one will condemn you; fame and glory will be yours. This can tip the scales of the war. Go on, do not let his cowardice dictate your choices. Fight for your honor!”

Patroclus reached out with his hand and touched the armor. He hesitated only one moment longer, before striping off the laces, unfastening them quickly with the efficiency he gained from helping Achilles put on his armor so many times.

 

* * *

 

 

“Attack them!” urged Ares later, standing behind disguised Patroclus upon the speeding chariot. “It’s not enough to show yourself. Achilles would fight; attack them!”

Patroclus did.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Ares came to him with hands covered with blood. He slid into Apollo's chamber weary, clad in armor, dusted, disheveled... Was the gore his? Enemies'? Their own people's? Has he lost patience with Trojans finally?

Apollo heard his heavy breathing audible in the quietness of the night. Ares' eyes shone in the dark, the god smelled of death and arousal. Like a bloodthirsty beast he approached Apollo’s bed silently.

He crawled upon his brother, smelling of murder.

Not that Apollo feared for his life – he was immortal after all - but for a second he could almost imagine how intense mortals lived their short, ethereal lives as a shiver run through him.

Ares’ hands seized him, not with the intention to hurt but to devour. Gore stained Apollo’s fine clothes as soot coated warrior, seemingly straight from the battlefield, grabbed him.

"Where have you been?" asked Apollo, wondering what his half mad sibling had been up to this time.

"Isn't it obvious, little brother?"

"What have you done?"

"Something to assure this war will continue."

Apollo stared at the sturdy form hovering over him, a tad darker shape than the surrounding dimness. Threatening and alluring at once.

"Love - or lust - is a powerful desire. So is the ambition to live up to one’s heroes or the call of duty to protect your country and its people. I merely stirred up things, hastened what was inevitable to happen either way. I couldn't wait another year, another day even. I needed... to push them into action."

The last words were a beastly growl, the rumble from the depth of his breast. Speaking, he all but fell at Apollo. More blood smeared Apollo’s flawless skin as Ares tore his clothes carelessly as if Apollo was his spoil of war. Smell of fresh kill coming from the God of War was nearly overwhelming.

Apollo grabbed Ares’ wrists, wound one thigh around the Warrior's legs to keep Ares from rutting  against him like an animal.

"What. Have. You. Done. Who's killed?

"Some Prince. His royalty doesn't matter as much as the fact he's Achilles' boy, though," Ares, not deferred in the slightest, kept pulling off Apollo's clothes and their foreplay turned in a brawl as it usually did when Apollo tried to still his brother’s movements and only succeeded in more clothes tearing and more skin exposed. "I whispered a few suggestions to Patroclus' ear. He took his lover's shield and helmet and lead his men to the walls of Troy."

Ares had his erection somehow pulled out and rubbed it against Apollo's quickly hardening in response member.

"Hector took him for his divine bedfellow," Ares' cock was dripping precume with excitement. Apollo doubted they'd reach any further stage in this harried lovemaking but he was quite engaged now bucking his own hips in tune.

“They fought?” he gasped, wrapping legs around Ares, this time to have him pressed more tightly to his own sweating body. Sharp edges of the armor plates dug into his calves, the insides of his thighs. He didn't care for bruises he would have there later.

“They fought,” panted Ares through clenched teeth, his movements turning more purposeful, more savage with it, less caring for Apollo’s comfort and more for Ares’ own satisfaction. Intent like warrior in a fight of life and death.

“And what a fight it was. Bards will sing about it, poets write about it. They fought weighing the scales of this war and their men battled all around them. The circle of violence, the clash of swords, the cries of dying and mortally wounded!” Ares stilled and came to the erotic - by his standards - vision. Apollo grimaced but not to the wetness splashing his stomach, but because he was still painfully hard and Ares raised up, taking away the warmth of the battle-heated body from Apollo’s skin.

Ares had fought himself, no doubt, as always choosing places of biggest tumult, jumping straight into the noisiest chaos, sending thrusts of his spear all around him, perhaps even slaying their own allies in his battle rage.

Apollo laid disheveled before him, in rustled remnants of robes, dirty with seed and with his cock still hard. In opposite to his brother he had no problems with people watching, and appreciating, his nakedness.

“Who won?”

“Hector,” Ares flashed him a wolfish smile, “he killed the boy. Now Achilles will kill him and that's how we'll win this war.”

Apollo frowned.

“How will we win if Greek’s most skilled soldier will be mad with fury and attack Troy in his wrath, leading an entire army if needed?”

“Or we won't,” shrugged Ares as he didn't have a care in the world for the city of Apollo’s patronage, “but the war will flare anew.”

“You fucking fool! Do you even realize what you’ve done?! We will lose this war because of you! If you weren’t such a halfwit, I’d think you did it specially for your mother!”

Apollo would yell some more but Ares was at him once again, this time taking his stiff cock into his mouth.

And words died at Apollo’s mouth. He revised his opinion on Ares being daft - he obviously learned from Aphrodite at least.


End file.
